


Forced to Face the Truth

by lovethybooty



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Annie is an artist, Breakups, Dorks in Love, F/M, Modern AU, sorta?, still in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8137966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovethybooty/pseuds/lovethybooty
Summary: It all started about a week ago when he saw the TimeHop picture from Cashmere’s wedding.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I haven't written anything in over two months... Life kinda got in the way and I've just been in a busy, busy funk.
> 
> In better news (pun most definitely intended), I was hired at a paper and I've been having tons of fun with my new job! It's a local weekly publication and it's really cool!
> 
> Anyway- this was lowkey inspired by Teenage Hearts by Allstar Weekend, and the title was stolen from Andy Grammer's Not Over You.

It all started about a week ago when he saw the TimeHop picture from Cashmere’s wedding. Of course, things had kinda gone to shit and the Finnick-Annie love boat had sunk not even six months later, but he still remembered that night fondly — even two years after the fact.

In the picture, they were happy. The genuine kind that only a candid moment could capture. She was sitting on his lap, giggling as she smashed a tiny piece of the cake Peeta had worked so hard to make against his nose. He deserved it, she’d later say. He was making raunchy comments at the dinner table.

Annie had been a member of the bridal party — her floor-length gown a soft lilac, her chocolate curls pinned up around her ears, the shell locket he had given her hanging loosely around her neck. She was the image of pure elegance and grace.

He had told her that same morning, as she was hurriedly rushing him out the door, that she was the only girl he’d ever met who could pull off the dreaded bridesmaid dress. Okay, well, maybe he _actually_ said something along the lines of, “Ann, I’ve been to a lot of weddings and seen a lot of desperate bridesmaids, but you’re the only one I’d ever want to hook up with during the reception,” but she’d laughed and punched him in the shoulder anyway.

That moment, however, seems a million lightyears away from the present.

Now Finnick is alone in L.A., and he can’t get her out of his brain.

* * *

He sits at the bar, fingers absentmindedly drumming against the wooden counter top.

“If you still love her, man, just talk to her,” Gloss offers nonchalantly, as if it were the most obvious, easy solution.

Finnick glares at him, eyes shooting daggers. “And how exactly do I go about that, huh? I’m not friends with her on anything — I don’t even think I have her number anymore.”

Gloss shrugs in response, “I can ask Cash, if you want. I’m pretty sure they still hangout. Not as often as before the move, but sometimes.”

“I didn’t know Cashmere moved,” Finnick replies, taking a sip from his glass.

“No, you idiot, Annie.”

Finnick all but spits out his whiskey.

“She _moved?!_ ”

“Yeah, didn’t she tell you?” Gloss asks.

Finnick glares again, gives him the _what a stupid fucking question_ face.

“Right,” Gloss nods slowly, “of course not.”

“Where did she move?”

“Down the coast a bit, toward San Diego,” Gloss pauses a beat. “La Jolla, I think.”

Finnick looks down into his glass, visibly stunned. She moved? She moved and she didn’t even have the decency to let him know? He knew things hadn’t exactly ended amicably, but it was hardly a bloodbath either.

“Well, when did she move? What’s she doing down there? Did she say why she left?” There is a sense of urgency present in his voice, unlike anything Gloss has ever heard from Finnick “Mr. Cool” Odair.

“Uh, she moved about three months ago, champ,” Gloss clamps a hand on Finnick’s shoulder. “Last time I talked to Cash, she said Annie was working in an art studio or something like that. Wanted fresh air, apparently.”

“Fresh air,” Finnick huffs. “Great.”

Gloss rolls his eyes. “Dude, cut the shit and just call her.”

* * *

It takes Gloss about a week before he can get back to him with Annie’s new number, and Finnick grows impatient.

> **[SMS from Poseidon]** have u heard back from Cash yet?  
>    
>  **[SMS from LipGloss]** nah, man. she’s really busy with work rn
> 
> **[SMS from Poseidon]** just let me know when u do, ok?
> 
> **[SMS from LipGloss]** sure thing, buddy

It uses just about all of his strength to refrain from checking in every five minutes, but he takes his mind off of it with booze and Buzzfeed videos.

* * *

Finnick's scrolling through his emails, clearing out the junk mail and spam when he sees it —  _anniec@panemart.org_. The actual email, miraculously, is five years old. An invitation to her first gallery after graduation.

He smiles as he reads it, remembers how fun that night was. Then he gets an idea.

He opens a new tab, starts an email. He types and deletes and then types and deletes again. A near hour of revision later, he’s finally satisfied with his work.

> **To:** anniec@panemart.org  
>  **From:** finnickstrident@4swimclub.com  
>  **Subject:** Can we talk?  
>    
>  Hey, Ann-  
>    
>  It’s Finnick, if you couldn’t tell from the address…  
>  Anyway, I’ve been thinking. Can we talk? I know it’s been a long time, but  
>  I really feel like we should catch up. I heard you moved away.  
>  Somewhere down the coast, right? Gloss said near La Jolla, but he’s always wrong so…  
>  Thoughts?
> 
> You can reach me here, or on Twitter, I guess. I’m still @finnickstrident, if you ever decide to unblock me.
> 
> Finnick Odair  
>  Gym Leader  
>  Four Swim Club

Finnick clicks send, kicks his feet up onto his coffee table. He channel surfs for a bit, wonders if he’ll even hear back.

He’s watching Caesar Flickerman when his phone buzzes next to him. With lightning fast reflexes, he snatches it up, struggles to punch in his passcode.

“Knew I should’ve gotten the 5s,” he curses under his breath.

When he finally gets into his emails, his face falls.

> **To:** finnickstrident@4swimclub.com  
>  **From:** MAILER-DAEMON@capitol.com  
>    
>  Sorry, we were unable to deliver your message to the following address.
> 
> <anniec@panemart.org>

Finnick frowns and shuts his phone off again, just in time to see Caesar Flickerman welcome French supermodel sensation, Glimmer, to the stage.

* * *

Sitting opposite Gloss in a booth at Mellark’s, he peers down at his phone.

He finally has the number, yet he can’t work up the courage to actually call her. He knows he wants to, sure, but he can’t say why. Is he still actually in love with her? Gloss certainly seems to think so, but Finnick just feels so confused.

“Quit being such a baby. Call her,” Gloss says. “Worst thing that happens is she says, ‘Finnick, I hate you and I never want to hear from you again.’”

Gloss laughs, but Finnick holds up a finger — specifically his middle — to shush him.

“Oooh,” Gloss jeers again, “real edgy, Odair.”

Finnick looks up from his phone, his expression clearly annoyed. “If you shut up for five minutes, maybe I’d actually be able to call,” he fires back.

Gloss throws his hands up in resignation, zips his lips and throws away the key.

Finnick dials the number, waits a moment, hits send. He sits anxiously as the line rings.

Finally, a click. There’s rustling, then a voice.

“Hello? This is Annie.”


End file.
